Prodigal Sons
by Arthur Maxwell
Summary: The Prodigal Sons, a Renegade Astartes warband, find a valuable asset on the derelict strike cruiser Golden Pride. Sergeant Aurik and his squad of Heimdall, Luther, and Crucius not only have to convince the asset of their worthiness, but also survive the ship's Tyranid infestation and their own infighting. The enemy of your enemy might be your friend, under the right circumstances.


Author: Arthur Maxwell

Title: Prodigal Son

Sergeant Aurik wiped his gauntlet on the reinforced glass viewing plate, brushing away the frost that had covered it for at least three hundred Solar years. According to pirated Administratum records, it had been about that long since the battle-barge _Golden Pride_ had gone missing on one of its long-range patrols. Aurik and his ilk had been the first to find the mangled derelict. Perhaps the ice was evidence of the breath of two people in conversation, or a prayer of succor to the distant God-Emperor of Mankind. Whatever their origin, the water-ice shards now drifted in the gravitational void of space, and would slowly spin apart from each other forever. Aurik nodded to himself and reflexively checked his weapons and helmet display.

"Crucius," he voxed, "I have found what you brought us here for."

"The Omnissiah led us here, brother, not I," Crucius' voice crackled.

"Squad Aurik, converge on my position and confirm," Aurik ordered.

"Could just say 'Heimdall, Luther, and Crucius, get your asses over here.' No need to be so formal," a deep, rich voice replied.

"Do not try my patience today, dog," Aurik said with casual menace. The other voice chuckled.

"This is Lance Corporal Heimdall, reporting as ordered. En route, Sergeant," the jokester said, "and with haste – ammo counters are trending steadily downward. Sir." It had not been an empty ship, tyranids having infested it sometime in the last few centuries.

"Mine as well," Corporal Luther voxed, "Not that they were very high to begin with. ETA: two minutes, twelve seconds."

"All worth it, brothers," Techmarine Crucius said, "On my way." Aurik grunted his acknowledgment absently. His mind was on keeping his squad in check to complete the mission. Lieutenant Khalid had been predictably succinct in his orders about their sortie: _Get in. Get it. Get out._

Crucius raced along the corridor, using all four limbs and his mechanical third arm to propel himself from point to point, completely heedless of his relative orientation in the Zero-G environment. He struggled to control his twin hearts as he scrambled towards his sergeant's position like a five-legged spider. A standard week prior, he had detected something on the long-range auspex array that had called to him as nothing else had in the last forty-two years. If he was right, the find might well be the greatest triumph for him since his excommunication. His exile was an unwelcome memory to him, a vengeful shadow of agony and anger. The Litany of Mechanical Perfection looping through his internal vox soothed him, but not fully.

Heimdall lashed out to the side with his fist, shattering the chitinous nightmare's mandibles and cranium against the steel bulkhead. In the vacuum of space, there was no sound to accompany the sudden haze of fluids and tissues in the ship corridor, but he felt the kill in his gut. All he could hear was his squad mates' breathing on the vox channel. He could pick out Crucius by his ragged pants, Luther by his metronomic breathing ( _in-in-out, in-in-out)_ , and Aurik by his brooding silence. His eyes flicked to his ammunition counters in the top-right of his HUD. There were ninety-three bolter rounds left, but Heimdall wanted to save them for something bigger than lone tyranid hormagaunts just coming out of stasis. It meant a minor exaggeration to the sergeant about his capabilities, but that mattered little compared to mission success and personal survival. If Aurik had his way, they'd each be putting three rounds into the central nervous mass of every shit-kicking xeno from galactic center to distal whorl. It made the former Space Wolf grimace, knowing that Aurik's preoccupation with the xenos was misplaced; their true enemy was Chaos, and if the sergeant could not see that, then he was the most lost of them all. Heimdall wiped his soiled gauntlet on the thing's disgusting hide and headed off.

Luther slowed his jogging when he sighted his squad leader. Sergeant Aurik was not a man to make sudden movements around. Luther was still learning the quirks of his new "Chapter." He was by far the most junior of the Prodigal Sons warband, even though he had spent eighty years in meritorious service with the Ultramarines beforehand. He was so new, in fact, that the head-to-toe blue luster of his armor had only a handful of scratches and obvious repairs.

It had been four Solar years since his former Captain had unceremoniously dumped him on a molten deathworld, and it had taken him three of those to find the Sons. He had sought them out because they were rumored to be the best renegade outfit in the quadrant. If that were true, Luther had realized, then the other warbands must be in truly dire straits.

"Hormagaunts, sir. Slowly waking up the longer we're here. Nothing else to report," Luther said.

"Thanks for the intel, _cadet_ ," Heimdall said as he strolled towards them apparently upside-down along the ceiling. He deactivated the maglock on his boots long enough to reorient himself relative the other members of the squad.

"That reminds me," Luther said to Heimdall, "your old drill instructor voxed us to ask when you were coming back. Said he felt lonely at night."

Crucius careened around the corner and nearly tore up the decking as he came to an abrupt halt at the door Aurik had found.

"I can hear it," Crucius panted, "Hear the silent choir of the machine spirits locked within." Aurik glanced at Crucius sadly, marveling as always at his comrade's fall from grace to near-madness. They had crossed paths on a rare mission of diplomacy between their Chapters, many decades before coming to the Prodigal Sons. While he had been impressed by the other man's skills at technomancy, it had been Crucius' serene bearing and personal warmth that had left the deepest impression on Aurik and his fellow Salamanders. He had been so unlike his brethren, so akin to the sons of Vulkan, that they could not help but welcome him and try to learn more from him. Aurik and Crucius had come to the Prodigal Sons at almost the same time, perpetrators of the same crime. Same crime, different sins. Dark days.

 _This_ , Aurik thought as he looked at his debased subordinate, _this is what comes of the Sin of Innovation. My sin was lesser, but still enough to see me gone._

"Crucius, get the door open. You two," Aurik said without looking at Luther and Heimdall, "guard the corridor."

Crucius pulled a retractable cord from a groove in his helmet that was identical to the one he carried in each glove – his own design, and just a hint of what had gotten him thrown out of the Iron Hands. He plugged it into a jack in the doorframe and began to give voice to the algorithms that echoed endlessly in his own mind. His words droned on the vox as his consciousness began to meld with the door's guardian code.

Luther took up his position, looked at the rune on his HUD representing Heimdall, and blink-clicked to open a private channel.

"My apologies for what I said about your drill instructor," he said, "I was in error. It was actually your chaplain. Something about private penance."

"We didn't have chaplains in the Wolves, whelp. Anyway, the fault is mine," Heimdall replied, slowly sweeping his bolter to cover his side of the corridor, "I should not have used such large words around you. I know that it confuses you Codex-thumpers."

"If you know more than a handful of words that don't use 'wolf' as a prefix, I'll jump out an airlock," Luther said absentmindedly, his thoughts on the shadows that danced from corner to corner.

Heimdall blink-clicked back to the squad channel as something darted by his vision. The jokes were over, and the real fun was about to start.

"Genestealer," he reported with some excitement, "First I've seen on the ship. Has anyone else seen one?" The squad's runes flashed blue for negative. Then Luther's rune changed to green.

"Contact," Luther said calmly, bringing down one of the hideous shock troops of the Hivemind with a short burst of fire.

"Brother Crucius," Aurik said, "less ceremony, more speed."

"The Great Cog completes its rotations in good time, Brother," Crucius said in a detached voice, "Who am I to turn it faster?" Slowly, the door slid open on recalcitrant motors. Crucius retracted his communion cord and knelt at the threshold for a moment before entering. Aurik stalked in behind him without genuflecting. The cavernous workshop they entered was as black as velvet, pierced by the long spears of light cast by their illuminators. A double handful of powered-down servitors were scattered about the room, looking like unstrung marionettes.

 _Good_ , Aurik thought, _we could always use more. But that would not have sent Crucius into such frenzied ranting. Ah . . . there we are._

Aurik stopped and gazed down at the suit of terminator power armor laid meticulously into a mobile display case. It was a newer variant, perhaps only a thousand years old. Aurik's helm auspex swept over it, noting the tower shield and thunder hammer at its side. There was a brave, indomitable machine-spirit housed within the armor, one designed to break the foe in both body and will.

"A mighty prize indeed, Crucius," Aurik said, looking around for the techmarine. Aurik saw him kneeling, his forehead pressed to the floor near the far corner of the large space, his murmuring filling the vox.

"Praise to the Emperor. Praise to the Omnissiah. Praise to the Flawless Logic. Praise to the Great Equation. Praise to the Emperor. Praise to the Omnissiah. Praise to –"

"Come now," Aurik said with annoyance, "Have you found something else?"

"Yes. I have the found a blade the equal of our arm; a measure of thrust more than equal to the mass of our convictions." Aurik hitched his shoulders uncomfortably. He wasn't sure he wanted to see what was sending his battle-brother into such rhapsodies. As a former Salamander, Aurik could understand the love of the forge and the blessings of the Omnissiah, but Crucius could get apostolic over the twist rate of threads in a structural bolt. The sergeant trudged forwards, ready to lay down the only law that really mattered so far from the Emperor's Light.

"At ease, Crucius," he said, "no need to–"

Aurik stopped, frozen with shock when he saw it in the gloom. Long moments stretched by. It was soundless in the vacuum, but Aurik could feel the thumping of weapons firing in the corridor through the decking, the hammering of his own blood in his ears.

"Sergeant," Luther voxed, "what is it?"

"Behold, Brothers," Crucius replied as though he stood at a pulpit, "The Machine God shows his benevolence by sending forth his avatar of wrath to aid his Prodigal Sons in their thankless war against the Ignorant, the Inhuman, and the Faithless." He raised his head and looked up at what dwarfed even the lanky Aurik. The sergeant moved next to the techmarine and knelt in thanks, awe, and fear. Crucius nodded his approval at Aurik's respectful posture.

"Brother Crucius," Aurik said, thinking quickly as he stood up, "Awaken the servitors to help carry the terminator armor."

"Mine," Heimdall grunted reflexively. Luther barked a warning that the tyranid presence was increasing.

"Once that's done," Aurik continued unfazed, "Heimdall, Luther, and I shall hold the corridor as long as we have to. Meanwhile, Crucius shall awaken the dreadnought."

 _Pain._

It had been his last sensation as a living man, his first sensation as a dead man, and his constant companion since then. It hounded him, whether he strode the fields of battle as a colossus or slept in the long void between blood-soaked stars.

He heard a song, floating through the endless dark.

 _Mother?_

Her hands were roughened from backbreaking toil, yet she had always held him gently in their tiny hab-unit.

 _What was her name?_

Primary processors rebooting.

He did not hear the message, did not see it, and did not feel it. It was simply there, traveling through the viscous fluid that surrounded his body to pass directly into what was left of his central nervous system.

 _Father?_

Father had been a guardsman. Or so his mother had told him. Father had died young and far away. He remembered boots that had seemed big at the time. The boots were the only parts of him that had made it home.

Combat systems activating.

 _Ah, of course: Brother. My parents never sang so well_.

Electrical nodes pierced the lobes of his brain and spine like so many harpoons, and with them came his body's realization that it was shattered. He was a toy of capricious gods, trampled and broken; flayed and dismembered; immolated and exalted. The pain soared in him, filling the hollow sockets of his eyes.

 _Death at last._ _True death. Please._

Neural receptors overloading.

Combat efficacy decreased.

Unconsciousness/death imminent.

Administering aid.

Numbness suffused him, dulling his agonies from miniature suns to blazing wildfires. Rabid life pulsed into his system, awakening what was left of his organs.

 _How_?

Systemic and targeted application of

facsimile neurotransmitters and hormones.

 _No. How did it come to this?_

Query unclear.

Twenty seconds to full combat readiness.

Activating external sensors and tactical display.

His mind filled with light and sound, and it took him several seconds to make sense of it all. It was strange to see without eyes, hear without ears. When he did, he was confused. Before him stood two Astartes, though he did not recognize them. The one in black armor carried the third arm and motley collection of augmetics that marked a son of the Iron Hands. The other was tall and unusually slender for a Space Marine, his slightly charred green armor and flamer slung over his back denoting him as one of the Salamanders. However, neither bore their respective clan's heraldry. Instead, a silver compass rose marked them each upon the shoulder.

 _Where are my battle-brothers?_

Scanning.

No Golden Lions life signs detected aboard.

All primary ship systems are compromised.

Ship hull integrity at 18%.

Cause unknown.

 _Emperor on Terra._

Compiling.

Assistance for a vessel this size would be from one Chapter.

Present Astartes represent multiple Chapters.

Unknown heraldry on all present.

Checking records.

Checking records.

Checking records.

Heraldry not found.

Bio-signature records not found.

Inductive conclusion: Renegade Astartes.

 _Death._

Death.

"Death," the dreadnought's voice boomed over the open vox channel, "Death comes for you and your foul masters, heretics." The behemoth tore its legs free of their restraints, but the arm restraints yet held.

"Damn it all to Hel," Luther grunted.

"Crucius," Aurik hissed.

"Honored Ancient!" Crucius shouted, saluting with all three fists to his chest, "Eternal Champion of our exalted God-Emperor! We beseech thee to stay thy terrible hand and hear out your fellow loyal Astartes!"

"So much for dying with dignity," Heimdall sighed, switching his bolter to full-auto as three genestealers burst from the floor decking less than four meters in front of him. He took his first backward step.

"Genestealers showing up in force, Sergeant," Luther voxed via the squad link. Aurik's breath caught, more in realization of what the junior squaddie had said than at the sight of the dreadnought's arms snapping the meter-thick steel bands surrounding each of them.

"Repeat that on open vox," he ordered, "everyone stay on the open vox!"

"Genestealers in the corridor, Sergeant," Luther repeated, lobbing a frag grenade and reloading his bolter in the same movement.

"Lots of mean shits, Sir," Heimdall snarled, letting his bolter float away as it clicked empty and his magazine belt came up dry. A mortal observer would have seen the Astartes' hands blur as he grabbed for his jet-black chainaxe, 'Sable,' to meet the horror that had charged him. The teeth of the blade sparked as his swing carried the weapon clean through the tyranid and into the bulkhead.

'Mortals have no place in the Long Dark between stars.' So Heimdall's grandmother had said to him through the smoke of the longhouse hearth. He had not believed her then. In the last few decades, he had come to know she was right. But then, he was not truly mortal anymore. Still, he had etched her words into the shaft of the ancient weapon.

"Revered Dreadnought," Aurik said as evenly as he could, "We found the remains of this vessel floating in the void and came here with the intent to help. Now it is we who need your aid. Tyranids infest the _Golden Pride_. We cannot make it back to our ship without you."

"All who oppose His will must die. Repent and your deaths will be swift. "

"Yes, Earth has turned its back on us and we decry the edicts of its fanatic hordes. We are outcasts, called the Prodigal Sons warband. But we are loyal to the Emperor and his grand dream. We brook no quarter with the Great Enemy, nor the xenos. Our hearts are pure, and we will one day stand proudly with our so-called loyalist brethren on Terra in true understanding. With us, you shall one day have the ones who did this to your Chapter in your terrible grasp. Together, all of us may at least have a chance at justice."

Peripheral scan shows rapidly increasing tyranid presence.

Assault cannon ammunition hopper at 25% capacity.

Promethium flamer tanks empty.

Close-combat weapons 85% operational.

Probability of victory alone: 1 x 10-12.

Probability of victory with support elements: 1 x 10-1.

 _Speak plainly, Spirit_.

The machine spirit that helped him pilot the dreadnought from inside his war-scarred sarcophagus could be single-minded, contemptuous, and uncompromising. But it always told the truth.

Survival is a necessary condition for revenge.

There was no response from the warrior giant standing over him, and Aurik felt the flaw that had been his undoing get the better of him: Wrath.

"Kill us or don't," he spat, "We're out of here. Crucius, get those servitors online. We're leaving with them and the terminator armor at least." He turned and headed for the corridor, drawing his bolt pistol and chainsword as he went. His flamer would have been a boon, but in the vacuum of space it was as useless as Crucius' melta gun. He made it as far as the threshold before Crucius bore him to the floor in a hard tackle.

"No, Brother! It is folly to turn your back on the Emperor's champion!" Crucius shouted. Aurik felt his rage soar to life like the dragons of his birthchapter's homeworld. He rammed his elbow back into the techmarine's faceplate and felt a gratifying amount of feedback, then rolled to pin the former Iron Hand to the floor with his knee. Crucius stubbornly shoved him back over with his mechanical limb.

"Damn you, Crucius!" Aurik roared, swinging hard at the side of his crazed comrade's head. The blow snapped Crucius' helmet sharply sideways, but the other man's grip did not slack as they grappled on the floor.

"Too many, Sir!" Lucius shouted as he knifed one in the onrushing horde and wrestled it away from his line of sight. Another short burst from his bolter bought him a few precious seconds.

"Fuck OFF!" Heimdall snarled as he swung his weapon and followed it with a savage kick-and-stomp.

Aurik felt the desperate need of his squad. And yet a lunatic was keeping him pinned to the decking. He made his decision, and jammed his bolt pistol flush against Crucius' mechanical elbow before pulling the trigger. The joint exploded, flinging shrapnel to the dark corners of the hall, and the arm went limp.

"A small price to witness such glory," Crucius laughed. Aurik's eyes snapped up to the pillar of destruction standing over him. Brass rained down on Aurik and Crucius, the strobing light from the assault cannon rebounding off hundreds of casings as they spun in the gloom, glittering in the silence and the muzzle flare like gentle sunlight on a calm sea.

Heimdall and Luther slithered along the floor to the safety of the dreadnought's chamber, practically swimming through the spray of tyranid ichor. The barrels of the dreadnought's weapon stopped and almost immediately cooled as it ceased fire. How the scything arc of the assault cannon had not hit any of the squad, Aurik had no idea. He rolled away from Crucius and looked at his battered subordinate with reproach. The techmarine would require a visit to both the apothecary and the machine shop back at the ship.

"Next time, Crucius, use words to convey information," Aurik growled.

"I did. We simply speak different languages," Crucius replied.

"I can't believe we weren't hit," Luther said as he checked his weapons. If he had been anything but an Astartes, one would have thought his voice trembled slightly.

"Sure puckered me right up," Heimdall laughed. He shook gobbets of flesh from Sable and stood up to poke his head into the corridor. He let out a low whistle.

"Approach lanes clear – if messy – and tyranids in retreat," he reported. Heimdall checked his backup bolter ammo counter: thirty-one. He began reloading the spent magazines from his storage pouches, his hands moving with the fluidity of constant practice: _click-click-click-click-click._

"More like advancing in the opposite direction," Luther said.

"Don't speak as if you know anything about the bugs, pup," Heimdall laughed, still reloading. _clickclickclickclickclick_

"I was at New Yrrkala," Luther replied after a moment of introspective silence. Heimdall grunted and paused in his reloading – as close as he cared to come to admitting the former Ultramarine may deserve some respect.

"Crucius, get the servitors and armor," Aurik said.

"Yes, Sergeant. But it will take some extra time without the use of my primary mechadendrite."

"Luther, assist him," Aurik ordered. Luther nodded and moved as ordered. The junior squad member eyed the dreadnought as he moved past it to assist Crucius. The thing had a boxy body supported on two thick, wide-set legs. Its right arm was a short-barreled assault cannon with a retractable chainsword bayonet, while its left hand was a four-fingered claw with a heavy flamer attached further up the arm. Each ablative plate, battle banner, weapon, and rivet was tinged a tawny yellow, the finer details picked out in silver. A frieze in steel was depicted on the front armor, showing a lifelike lion fighting a cabal of demons, their bodies ruined and scattered.

 _And we woke this thing up_? Luther wondered.

"He got a name?" Heimdall asked Crucius, jerking his chin at the dreadnought, "Or do we just call him 'Sir?'"

"Honored Champion," Crucius said from where he was rebooting the servitors, "By what title shall we call you?"

Irrelevant. We are Dreadnought GL-05.

The machine-spirit's words swirled in the broken man's cortex and sloughed off the last of the stasis-fog.

 _No, we aren't,_ he replied angrily, _my name draws worthy enemies to me, scatters cowards like chaff, and strengthens the sword-arms of our brethren. It is right that_ my _name serves the Emperor alongside_ my _broken body in death. You will search the cogitator banks for record of my title without further comment, ghost._

Very well, corpse _._

"I am Sir Oberon, Herald of Annihilation."

"Mister Sir, then," Heimdall said with a smirk.

"Enough, Lance Corporal," Aurik snapped, "Or I'll gift him your head myself. Crucius, are you ready or not?"

"Nearly, Sergeant," the techmarine replied, directing two servitors to pick up the terminator armor and two others to follow him into another corner of the hold. When he returned, the servitors bore a large crate between them.

"And that is?" Aurik asked.

"Important," Crucius answered without looking at Aurik as he walked by. Aurik ignored the impertinence as a waste of valuable time.

"Heimdall and I will take point," Aurik said, "Crucius and Luther, take the rear. Servitors in the middle with the cargo. Sir Oberon –" he paused, realizing he was about to give an order to a walking extension of the Emperor's wrath.

"Where would you prefer to be?" Aurik asked. Heimdall snickered.

"The debased xenos will attack the center of the column. That is my place."

Heimdall fumed, wishing he could remove his helmet to sniff the air. It would have told him more than any dim-witted auspex in his armor. Their progress had been glacially slow since leaving the dreadnought's chambers, delayed by the pace of the servitors and the necessity of sticking to corridors that could admit Oberon's massive bulk. Heimdall could feel the Tyranids out there, massing somewhere for a surge that would fall on the renegades like an avalanche. He was not afraid of that eventuality. Rather, he was raw from holding back the desire for combat.

"Why do they not attack?" Heimdall snarled, "They must know that these tactics do not sow fear in our minds."

"Do not mistake the Tyranids," Crucius said, "For there is no 'they,' only a great an inimical 'I.' In fact, even suggesting that there are many rather than one is folly. It should be 'The Tyranid,' with none of our petty individualism."

"The silver on your tongue has grown tarnished these last few decades, Brother," Heimdall said with some measure of sadness, "you should speak in a way that does not require wit."

"Look who's talking," Luther said. Aurik cut in over the vox to forestall any more bickering.

"Enough. Fools charge in where angels fear to tread. What Crucius means is that one should not think of each separate tyranid as an individual or even separate from the others. Each 'tyranid' is but a part of the Hivemind, which spends its bioforms as we do bolter shells. 'They' do not attack us yet because 'It' has other plans, and but conserves ammunition."

Aurik finished his harangue as they came into the final area before the exit, a hangar-cathedral. He motioned to Crucius, who strapped a power cell to the hangar's primus console near the entrance, bleeding a little power from its main purpose to try to increase the oxygen content and gravity in the massive airlock. Though each space marine was capable of operating in everything from zero to eight G's without any untoward exertion, they all detected and appreciated the subtle changes in their weight and the resurgence of sound as atmospheric cyclers kicked on. Lights flickered on far overhead, and they saw the grandeur that could merely be guessed at beforehand.

The plasteel decking under their feet was the only fully utilitarian element of the gargantuan space around them. Everything else was at least partly decorative: everything was gilded, painted, or carved in grand style. The walls were smooth marble, shot through with seams of gold, sculpted into the figures of stern warriors that soared dozens of meters above them to the far-off frescoed ceiling. At the other end of the space was an armored door, emblazoned with the holy Aquila and the benediction "THE EMPEROR PROTECTS." Sir Oberon paused for a moment to look at it all before moving with the renegade squad toward the inscribed blast doors at the end of the airlock.

 _Honored Spirit,_ Oberon said to his captor-slave, _I regret my injurious words earlier. You are as faithful a servant of the Emperor as either myself or the name I still bear but would no longer remember without your aid._

 _"My" name would not carry such significance without you._

 _I was wrong. I am sorry._

The response came two seconds later, making it a carefully considered response from the machine-spirit.

You are Annihilation.

I am Herald.

We are Oberon.

Oberon smiled, though with the state of his body it resembled a death mask more than anything.

 _You speak true._ _Now tell me, Spirit: how many others were aboard the_ Golden Pride _when it was attacked and sundered?_

Eighty-seven Astartes: ~15% of full Chapter Strength

Four hundred Chapter serfs.

One Navigator.

 _Search the logs for evidence of their fate._

Tactical Alert:

Xenos inbound on present location.

 _To war, then._

To war.

"Negative copy, _Adamant_ , say again," Aurik said, cursing the lack of a proper voxcaster in the squad. He kicked the rebuilt one he'd been carrying in the hopes that it would coax the cantankerous machine spirit within to awake. Crucius walked up to his sergeant, took hold of the antenna assembly in his left hand, and raised his crippled mechadendrite at a precise angle. The signal stabilized, and Aurik nodded at his battle-brother in thanks, patching him in to the vox call as a peace offering.

"Extraction inbound," the serf on the other end of the connection said evenly, "ETA: five minutes."

"Be advised, _Adamant_ , we have a venerable dreadnought with us." There was silence for a moment before a different and more authoritative voice replied in a hard-bitten tone.

"Repeat that, Aurik."

"Aye, Lieutenant. We have with us ten servitors, one suit of assault terminator armor, one crate extra supplies, and one Beowulf-class dreadnought with venerable pilot." Plaster fell on Aurik's pauldron, and he looked up to see a childhood nightmare come to hideous life.

"Purge the xenos in His glorious name," Oberon boomed, leaning back on whining servos to sweep the ceiling frescoes with his blazing autocannon, shredding the genestealers that were scuttling from breaches in the artwork like cockroaches.

"The door!" Luther shouted, pointing at where they had entered the cathedral-bay. In the long hallway beyond, a blasphemous flood of tyranids surged towards them. Aurik blink-clicked his commands to the squad and rushed to seal the far door with Heimdall. At the same time, Luther and Crucius added their bolter fire to Oberon's hurricane of death, dropping tyranids to the gravity-enhanced deck with loud _pops_ of rupturing tissue and scattered viscera. Each one that fell seemed to be replaced by three just like it, crawling over each other like an upside-down anthill.

Aurik and Heimdall reached the end of the corridor seconds before the Hivemind's onrushing forces. Behind the mass of hormagaunts came the first of the true warrior-forms, their roaring faint yet hideously layered in the thin air of the airlock. It was only a matter of time before the synapse link between the Hivemind and its forces was fully realized.

"LZ is hot," Aurik shouted on the open line to the _Adamant_. With the code-phrase came a kaleidoscopic surge of combat drugs to each member of the squad, administered by the gland-stims in their modified armor. Every movement was more direct and fluid; every moment hung in the air just a fraction longer. It was the edge they needed. It was part of what gave the Prodigal Sons a chance at survival in the running battle that was their existence.

Aurik unslung his flamer and grinned exultantly as he swept the double-headed muzzle in a wide arc, putting dozens of bioforms to the torch. Through the wall of fire burst two warriors, screaming hatefully as they died under Heimdall's berserk, euphoric blows. More flooded in behind the dead ones, and began to flank the two Prodigal Sons.

Aurik quickly activated his alternate optical feeds, sacrificing precise resolution for panoramic input. Seconds raced by in furious combat.

Input.

Target.

Kill.

Move.

Input.

Target.

Kill.

Move.

World on fire.

Blood on fire.

Input.

Fangs at 5:00.

No time.

A meteoric flash vaporized the top half of the warrior form, and Aurik laughed his thanks to Crucius and his timely melta gun blast. Heimdall put his axe through a charred hormagaunt's skull, and then threw what was left of the bioform at the door's control panel. The trickster's aim was either lucky or true, and the portal slammed down. Almost immediately, it began to buckle under heavy blows from the other side. The mop-up on the space marine's side of the door was brutally efficient.

"Sufficient evac en route," the lieutenant's voice said through the hiss of interference, "ETA: eight minutes. Hold position, Aurik."

"I repeat," Aurik panted, sprinting back to the main group and dodging falling genestealer corpses, "We are in dire straits, Lieutenant. Heavy assaults on our position."

"Are you Astartes or aren't you? Khalid out." The link went dead.

"A worthy question," Luther sighed, clearing a jam in his weapon before firing again. The ceiling swarm was dead or retreating, but none of the warband was under any delusions about what that meant. The tyranids would return.

"By the Emperor's magnificent golden sack, Luther," Heimdall chuckled as he finished off a struggling genestealer with his boot, "Can you so much as relieve your bladder without being overcome by melancholy?"

"Excommunication does not gnaw at your soul?" Luther asked incredulously.

"No more so than simple-mindedness gums at yours."

"Enough," Aurik grated as they all converged on Oberon's position, "Squad report."

"Fucked up and far from the hearth," Heimdall replied, hefting his chainaxe with a shrug, "I'm out of bolter ammunition, I'm down to two lungs after taking some sort of projectile to the chest, and my last grenade went down a warrior-form's face hole . . . I'm mostly sure it was the face, anyway. So it's just me and Sable against the galaxy. Again."

"Melta offline due to long-range amplitude adjustment," Crucius said briskly, head cocked in grim calculation, "Zero bolter rounds, one standard-issue bayonet attached to bolter, one cutting torch, one welding torch."

"Three bolter rounds, chainsword, and a power knife," Luther said, "Couldn't get much worse."

"Oh Divine Emperor!" Heimdall cried out, throwing his hands up towards the ceiling, "Have mercy on this one, the ugliest of all your children!" Luther slowly turned to look at him venomously.

"Well," he said, "At least you'll have some help. What about the rest of us?" Heimdall started in surprise before doubling up with laughter.

"There's hope for you yet, simpleton!" he cackled.

Despite himself, Aurik had to tamp down a chuckle before making his own report.

"I'm down to half my promethium tank, my chainsword, three walking liabilities," he said ruefully, "and seven minutes to extraction."

"Forget not, my brother," Crucius said, turning to look at the dreadnought with them, "we also have one of the Omnissiah's chief servants."

"Impious heathens," Oberon rumbled as he stared at the rapidly failing blast doors, "Faith is our shield and Fury is our hammer. All shall be as the Emperor wills it."

Crucius and Aurik's heads synchronously whipped towards the vacant faces of the servitors and the bulky cargo they carried. At the same time, the doors Heimdall had closed crumpled to unleash a tide of scuttling death. Oberon's massive gun swept the tyranid swarm once, cutting down the front rank in divine judgment. Then the weapon went silent, spent. The dreadnought's retractable chainsword slid forward over the assault cannon, and Oberon flexed his power claw in anticipation. The sergeant and techmarine leapt towards the servitors at the same moment.

"Buy us time," Aurik ordered the others, "however you can."

"Cry havoc," Heimdall snarled, revving Sable's grizzled motor.

Query complete.

Attackers: Traitor Astartes

Subsequent scavengers: Tyranids.

 _And my comrades?_

All eighty-seven Golden Lions aboard:

KIA.

"Eighty-seven," Oberon bellowed, "Eighty-seven to avenge in the maelstrom of battle!" With a speed that defied his incredible mass, he hurtled towards the tyranid swarm. Heimdall's bloodsong rang out as he sprinted ahead of the dreadnought, and only Luther was left standing at the extraction point.

 _Very well_ , he thought, _if I am to be a renegade, then Codex be damned._ He breathed out sharply to steady his aim and brought his bolter to his shoulder with a parade-ground snap.

"Reactivate mag-locks," he warned before squeezing the trigger once for a tight burst. With a shower of flame, the power pack attached to the far-off console exploded. Luther swapped his empty bolter for his chainsword and power knife, and ran after Heimdall and Sir Oberon in the clumsy, stomping run forced by the sudden lack of artificial gravity. In the distance, the tyranids flailed in the air, scrabbling for purchase just out of their reach and gyrating in a grotesque ballet.

"A fine trick!" Heimdall shouted with exuberant laughter as he lumbered forward.

"We'll need more than tricks," Luther said ruefully as he watched the largest tyranids punch their talons into the plasteel deck. Hope flared in Luther's chest when he glimpsed Oberon practically liquefying the xenos before him with mighty blows, and then that hope promptly died when a carnifex barreled into the hangar _through_ a marble wall. As Oberon towered over the renegades, so did the carnifex stand above the Hivemind's warrior-forms. The massive xeno's maw opened with a nearly soundless scream in the weakening atmosphere, and it lumbered towards the fray.

Aurik hefted the thunder hammer with both hands, heedless for the moment of its masterful, refined brutality. Getting into the terminator armor was out of the question, but the weapon could be wielded with some effort. He glanced anxiously at his readout of the squad's vitals. Crucius made an adjustment to the nuclear power pack on Aurik's armor, and Aurik suddenly felt stronger. Almost too strong. And perhaps a little warm.

"What are you doing?" he asked in a mild panic. Crucius' workshop was littered with the debris of his tinkering.

"As Heimdall would put it, 'flogging your armor's primitive machine spirit like a rented mule,' Sir," Crucius replied. Just then, they felt a terrible rumble through the floor, and both looked up to see the carnifex smash into the cathedral not far from Luther. Almost immediately, the swarm around it gained a marked measure of efficiency and coordination, beginning to act as one; the primary synapse node had arrived. Both the sergeant and the techmarine knew they'd never get there in time.

Crucius ripped the protective cover from the promethium tank of the flamer on Aurik's back.

"What –" Aurik began to say.

"For the Emperor," Crucius intoned, stabbing into the vessel of holy fire with his cutting torch.

Heimdall whipped around to disembowel an attacking genestealer. More came behind it. And more. And more. Something spat ichor in his eyes, blinding him. He switched to infrared optics, and his vision became filled with a seething mass of red.

Something pierced his leg. He struck it down. Holding on to its corpse like a shield, he battered his way through the front lines. His remaining heart and lung were ripping themselves apart to keep up with the demands of his body.

 _None shall sing my saga_ , Heimdall thought sadly.

Sable's teeth ground to a halt in the thick hide of a warriorform's thorax, and Heimdall took to simply hacking the black steel through anything in his path, like one of the warriors of antiquity. It felt glorious. Something heavy went through his hip. He could feel his reactive armor and Larraman cells try to staunch the flow of blood.

 _Not this time._

He knew that his wyrd could not be denied any longer.

 _Does_ _valor weigh more than failure, here at the last_ , he wondered.

An alarm began to blare in his helmet. He silenced it. Something grabbed his leg, and he knew where to strike without seeing it, how to extinguish its foul life with the fewest possible movements. His warcry became a blood-flecked cough. His left arm went dead, but his right was still strong, and Sable was still firm in his grasp. He swung. Life and death flowed in and out of him with each labored breath.

Heimdall looked up from the melee when he felt the explosion. The left half of his sight was gone. Something flew away from the fireball, but he did not see it in time before it crossed into the path of his dead eye. What he did see was Crucius' body hit the airlock blast doors at killing speed, and then drop like a rag doll, and he felt a sharp pang in his soul – it felt like jaws closing over his shoulder, piercing and crushing.

 _Guide him, All-father_ , he prayed as his senses misted over and Sable was torn from his fingers, _let him feast at your table until the final battle. Seat him beside me._ _Him and the others. Luther can pour the ale._ He balled up his fist and swung blindly, feebly. He laughed, then fell, and saw the blue ice of his homeworld loom over him like crystallized sky.

Aurik shot forward, shapes blurring in his sight as he tumbled, his stabilizing gyroscope destroyed from the explosion. The only thing in focus was his proximity alarm as he streaked towards the carnifex. He swung with all of his wrath and what was left of his faith.

 _After all,_ he thought, _fools charge in._

Lieutenant Khalid watched as serfs fitted the last of the terminator armor to Aurik's body. Aurik flexed his fingers, and was reminded momentarily of a fever he'd had as a child, the way his body had felt too large to understand and his brain was prickly and disoriented. Somewhere deep in his mind, he felt the silent presence of a distinct _other_. It would be some time before the ancient machine spirit of the armor came to trust its new partner and join its strength fully to his.

"And you say you still do not remember what happened after Crucius detonated your flamer tank?" Khalid asked.

"That is correct," Aurik lied, "Nothing until we were back aboard the _Adamant_. But I've gathered that I am not the only one to profess ignorance."

"It was quite the scene, I'll give you that," the lieutenant said with a tight smile, "a horde of synapse-deprived tyranids to clean up, a blood-raging dreadnought tearing through anything that moved, Luther standing over Heimdall and a mountain of corpses with only a power knife, and you floating around the ceiling with a mangled carnifex, sleeping through the whole thing."

"And Crucius," Aurik said, his voice made guttural and flat by the heavy, rhinoceros-like helmet of the terminator armor.

"And Crucius," Khalid said, nodding slowly. He frowned. "On that note, come with me to the Apothecarium. There may have been some developments."

"The Emperor loves fools," Aurik said.

"As you prove time and again."

In the Apothecarium, they found Luther sitting on an examiner's table, rotating the ankle of his new augmetic limb experimentally for the apothecary, Roland. Luther saw them and got to his feet to stand at attention.

"At ease," Khalid said, "Luther, Aurik, attend the apothecary and I in Sir Oberon's chambers in an hour."

"You mean Crucius' old workshop?" Aurik asked.

"Oberon's chambers, yes," Khalid corrected. Luther grimaced. It had only been a day or two – could they not properly mourn two of their own, two of only fifty Prodigal Sons aboard their vessel, now forty-eight? They had not even bothered with a proper funeral for Crucius, and Heimdall was dying slowly in their one functioning stasis chamber. Was this what awaited all Prodigal Sons: a pause at evening prayer and then a dark line through the roll call?

Sir Oberon, Herald of Annihilation, stared out the broad viewing port at the passing stars and hideous carcass of his old vessel. He looked at his reflection. His heraldry was the same, the lion on his sarcophagus still roaring its defiance and rage . . . its sorrow. Alongside the holy prayer scrolls, the medals of campaigns won on worlds that had since disintegrated in supernovae, and the seals of purity draped over his massive frame, was a new device, scrawled into the metal by the crude plates of his power claw: 87.

All systems fully operational.

 _So you have already told me, Spirit_

And yet our combat efficacy is greatly reduced.

Cerebral activity compromised.

Endocrine activity compromised.

Neuropathic-Spirit Connection compromised.

Why?

 _My comrades are all dead._

Vengeance shall be ours.

 _It shall. But it will not bring them back, and will not revive our glorious Chapter. I have not been awake and away from combat for this long in . . . I do not know. Perhaps since my first life ended. What about you, Spirit_? _What do you feel_?

All systems fully operational.

Oberon sighed. The machine-spirit was beginning to degrade without a battle to attend to. Unfortunately, the Prodigal Sons did not have the ability to put the Spirit at rest, and so they both had to suffer life.

 _If I were to sleep, Spirit, and you to remain awake with no foe to fight, what would become of you?_

Exponential code fragmentation.

Oberon turned away from the viewport at the sound of the door chime.

"Enter," rumbled the voice on the other side of the door. Aurik, Luther, Roland, and Khalid filed into the spacious hangar. Aurik tried not to look at how clean it was, how uncluttered it had become without Crucius around to confound the servitors. Instead, he bowed to the dreadnought as much as the terminator suit allowed him.

"I thank you for the gift of the holy armor," Aurik said with grave formality to the former Golden Lion, "I shall strive to make all my actions as honorable as the ones who wore it before me."

"An impossible but appropriate goal," Oberon replied.

"Sir Oberon," Khalid said evenly, "The cosmic currents abate. We believe that we shall be able to safely enter the Warp within a day or two. But even then, it may be weeks or months before we find the ones who wronged you."

"Eighty-seven Brothers, Renegade. How long must I withstand this unbearable weight of consciousness, bastard son of Holy Terra?" Oberon asked, "How long must I be forced to remember that I am dead?"

"Perhaps for less time than you think," Aurik said, "It is right to wish to avenge your comrades. But our search will take time."

The dreadnought was silent for a moment as he regarded his hands that were only metal. They had been flesh and blood, once. Strong. Scarred. His. The Emperor's.

"Speak," Oberon commanded.

"Apothecary," Khalid said, "show them what became of Crucius." Roland bowed, and touched a device at his collar. Within moments, four servitors trooped into the room carrying an enormous load between them. The clumsy rectangle the servitors set on the floor before backing away was completely unadorned, with artless rivets and an unblemished façade. It was boxy, ugly, and entirely unmistakable in purpose.

" _How_?" Aurik demanded sharply.

"It was in the crate that Crucius had the servitors carry."

"Then he is interred within?" Luther asked.

"What is left of him, yes," Roland replied drolly.

Aurik roared and lumbered forward, smashing his fists into the inert sarcophagus again and again, raining blows upon the metal that were not enough, would never be enough for such willful deceit. Then he felt an undeniable force close around his waist and lift him into the air.

"Cease," Oberon said. Aurik was set back on his feet to vent his frustrations in silence. What gave him pause, even beyond the might of Oberon, was the sensation of pleasure from the spirit in his armor. With a low chuckle, it began to link its will to his.

"What now?" Luther asked the room. Khalid looked up at the venerable dreadnought.

"Sir Oberon," the Lieutenant said, "As you know, we do not have the ability to send both you and your machine-spirit back into slumber. Crucius has informed me that he is willing to be the pilot for your machine-spirit and dreadnought body while you sleep. He is touched by the Omnissiah and can help your machine-spirit find equilibrium. We will plow a field of blood straight and true with our combined strength. And when we find the ones responsible for your Chapter, whenever and wherever we find them, you shall be awoken and placed in command of your body once more. That is our offered bargain. What say you?"

 _Well, Spirit?_

I would go to war without you?

 _Yes._

You would return?

 _As my duty and honor._

We are Oberon.

 _We are Oberon._

They shall not call us such unless we are rejoined.

 _Beware their lies. They may try to twist us._

Let them try.

"Your offer is accepted, Lieutenant Khalid of the Prodigal Sons," Oberon said. He leaned forward, casting his shadow over all assembled before him.

"But first," he said, turning to face Luther and Aurik, tapping the self-inflicted marking on his body, "you shall help me turn eighty-seven into eighty-six. We make the jump now."

The End


End file.
